Our guide to the best British pubs. This week: The Minerva Inn, Plymouth

The sign at the door is a testament to the Minerva Inn’s history: “Home to the Press Gang” says the proud white lettering. For this tiny Plymouth pub was once the place where unfortunate souls had the king’s shilling slipped into their pints, then found themselves huckled through a secret passage and “impressed” on to a Royal Navy ship waiting on the nearby Barbican dockside.

Established somewhere around 1540, the Min claims to be the pilgrim city’s oldest hostelry. It lies a short stroll from the Barbican, on a steeply graded cobbled street which was once home to Sir Francis Drake (he is said to have quaffed a gallon at the Minerva after defeating the Armada). An exquisite stained-glass depiction of a helmeted Minerva (the Roman goddess of wisdom) on the pub’s one window is a relic from the time it was owned by the Octagon Brewery. The pub’s hanging signage features an owl and refers to Hegel’s idea that you only apprehend the historical moment you’re living through as it comes to a close: “The owl of Minerva spreads its wings only with the falling of the dusk”. Classy.

It can be a squeeze to get through the Min’s skinny and low-ceilinged space to the bar; and you might need to breathe in just that little bit more if you’re seeking refuge in the snug at the back bar – with its large open fire, sofas and artefacts relating to the pub’s history. Originally the home of an Elizabethan sea captain, the Minerva was built using timber reclaimed from galleons belonging to the vanquished Armada. Part of one of the ship’s spars forms the core of a spiral staircase.

Until recently, the ceiling was covered in the signatures of celebrities, servicemen and your ordinary punter, but local health and safety officials proclaimed the paint a fire hazard and ordered that it all be covered in something more flame retardant. But the tradition has started all over again.

On a Saturday afternoon there’s a crowd of ex-Royal Navy guys who are a wee bit boisterous, but we can still chat quietly and try some of the ales: regulars Doom Bar and Tribute Cornish Pale Ale and guests including Camerons IPA, Dartmoor IPA and Hoppy Days from Devon’s Bays – a does-what-it-says-on-the-tin short-time brew using green hops. Old Rosie, a honeyed, cloudy, unfiltered scrumpyish cider is a joy.

An enthusiastic local at the bar shows me a chink in the wall that is said to be part of the smuggling tunnel, and a peephole they say was used by the Press Gang to spot their prey coming. He sips a little more of his pint then whispers as he tells me of the time he nodded a hello to a man passing his back. “I never believed in ghosts, but I saw the man pass. The bartender didn’t,” he explains. “Obviously it hasn’t stopped me coming back.”